


building bridges

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Mentorship, Teacher-Student Relationship, this is actually pretty darn light despite those tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 15:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11740068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: Arafinwë never did see a bridge he did not cross, never saw an outstretched hand he did not accept. He took his brother’s poisoned fruit and called it a gift and it would never have occurred to him to do anything else.(Or: Fëanáro builds bridges, thinking they are walls.)





	building bridges

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts).



When Indis’s youngest child is nine, Fëanáro writes to Finwë.

_ I will teach your children anything they wish to learn, _ the letter says,  _ languages, smithing, anything at all. Your dearest son _ — and this is a calculated insult —  _ Fëanáro Curufinwë.  _

The offer is not made sincerely. Anyone can see this; Fëanáro does not expect Indis or Finwë to miss it. He offers his lessons to Indis’s children not out of desire for their well-being but out of desire to see them pulled away from her; he offers himself up not as a true gift but like a poisoned fruit. 

_ No, _ Findis writes back,  _ My tutors are perfectly adequate. _ And of course, Indis would teach her children to be satisfied with adequacy, of course she would never allow them to truly strive. 

_ No, _ Nolofinwë writes back, _ I will learn all I need to know from my mother, _ and Fëanáro could seethe or he could laugh at what is surely intended to be a clever insult and he settles for both at once. 

Írimë does not write back at all. Fëanáro respects her for it, or something very near. 

And their youngest, Arafinwë, writes in a child’s shaky hand,  _ yes, my brother, blood of my blood, will you teach me Telerin? _

 

Fëanáro arrives at Finwë’s house a week later with no warning at all. 

He does not look at the touches of Indis’s presence and sneer and find them wanting. He does not acknowledge Indis at all. He takes an empty guest room for himself at the end of a corridor, four rooms away from anyone else in the house, and tells Arafinwë to be there at seven in the morning. Arafinwë is there at half past six. 

Fëanáro smiles. 

 

Telerin Quenya is very much like Noldorin Quenya, so once Arafinwë can adopt the accent they conduct their lessons entirely in Telerin. This happens more quickly than Fëanáro was expecting, but then, Arafinwë’s young. 

Days stretch into weeks. From conducting their lessons entirely in Telerin they move to speaking entirely in Telerin, in the room that Fëanáro has claimed and outside of it. Weeks stretch into months, and Arafinwë chatters happily in Telerin while his Vanyarin mother and Noldorin father watch, pausing occasionally to ask Fëanáro for a word he does not know. 

He never asks for the same word more than once, Fëanáro notes.  _ He isn't very bright, _ were the whispers in Tirion,  _ hardly a Noldo at all. He looks like a Vanya, he acts like a Vanya, are we sure he isn't one? _ Fëanáro thinks that Arafinwë is cleverer than most give him credit for. 

Not that that is saying much. 

 

Months stretch into a year, and Fëanáro finds himself looking for reasons to keep teaching Arafinwë.  _ He will need to practice or the fluency will be lost, _ or  _ He still asks for vocabulary _ — all perfectly true, of course, but nothing that would hold him in Tirion ordinarily. 

He leaves the city once he notices. He says goodbye to Arafinwë, of course, and to his father, and not to anyone else. 

Arafinwë continues to write to him, still in Telerin. Fëanáro writes back, when he remembers. Arafinwë’s handwriting improves; his Telerin was already excellent. Eventually he is old enough that they can have real conversations, and Fëanáro writes back more often then. 

 

When Arafinwë is six and twenty, Fëanáro returns to Tirion. 

There is no letter to Finwë; Arafinwë is the only one of Indis’s household who receives any warning at all. “Curufinwë,” Finwë says, surprised to see him but clearly pleased. 

“Curufinwë,” says Findis, her voice frosted over. 

_ “Fëanáro,” _ Arafinwë says, and throws his arms around Fëanáro’s neck. “I missed you,” he says in soft Telerin; his accent is near-perfect. 

Fëanáro missed him too. He does not say so aloud. “You've grown,” he says instead, and turns to his father and says in Noldorin, “It is good to see you again.” 

 

He stays in Finwë’s house for a week without explanation, speaking with Finwë in Noldorin and with Arafinwë in Telerin and with the rest of Indis's family only when he cannot avoid it, and then announces that he must return to his forge outside the city. 

“We will be sad to see you go,” Finwë tells him. He seems to mean it, although Írimë looks as if she might be thrilled. 

“Would you bring me with you?” Arafinwë asks, conspicuously in Noldorin. “I've been wanting to learn gemcraft, and I don't believe I could hope to find a better teacher.” 

There is a long, awkward silence. Fëanáro schools his face into something more neutral than smug. “Of course I would,” he says, smiling at Arafinwë. 

He can feel Indis's gaze on him; he does not meet her eyes. 

 

Arafinwë is not skilled in any craft but drawing, but he is eager to learn — more so than Maitimo or Makalaurë ever were, although Fëanáro has hopes for Tyelkormo when he's older — and that counts for much. He seems to have skipped over adolescent awkwardness and straight into a coltish kind of grace; he's a joy to teach, difficult to frustrate and easy to please. 

They start with simple engraving, geometric patterns into copper. Makalaurë was more skilled at four and twenty, but Arafinwë practices at every chance he gets and before long is engraving Fëanáro’s Tengwar into bronze. 

Arafinwë earns his keep like any other apprentice, helps with cooking and helps with Tyelkormo. Fëanáro had half-expected living with him to grate, familiarity breeding contempt as it so often does, but he is as easy to please and as easy to love outside their lessons as within them. 

Fëanáro teaches. Arafinwë learns — learns to engrave metal, learns how to make a pendant from a stone, learns how to set a stone. 

“Nobody could claim you aren't a Noldo now,” Fëanáro tells him, when Arafinwë  _ creates _ a stone for the first time. 

“Of course they can,” Arafinwë says. “I'm not.” 

 

They return to Tirion just in time for Arafinwë to turn nine and thirty, with all of Arafinwë’s best work — soft moonstone and glowing opal and dark blue goldstone that sparkles as though with stars — and a handful of Fëanáro’s pieces. Arafinwë’s work looks nearly Telerin in style; Fëanáro thinks that perhaps he understands the rumors in Tirion. 

He kisses Arafinwë's forehead and hugs him tight and leave him outside the palace. “I'll write,” Arafinwë promises. 

The next letter Fëanáro receives is from Indis, reading only,  _ Did you encourage this?  _ Finwë’s letter arrives hours after with an explanation: Arafinwë has run away to Alqualondë and will not return home. 

_ I did not,  _ Fëanáro writes to Indis,  _ but I cannot fault him for his choice.  _

 

When Arafinwë is fifty, he comes of age and he does not return to Tirion. 

Fëanáro visits him in Alqualondë. Indis's other children are not there. Arafinwë does not ask for news of them. 

The city is beautiful. Arafinwë is beautiful in it; watching him move through the streets, watching him speak to his adopted people, there is no question that Alqualondë is better for him that Tirion could ever have been. 

 

“I'm getting married next year,” Arafinwë says. They're sitting at the docks together, the sea stretching out in front of them as far as their eyes can see. 

One and fifty is young to be married, but Fëanáro married Nerdanel at five and forty; there will be raised eyebrows, but not from him. “Do you love her?” 

Arafinwë shrugs. “She prefers women, I prefer men. I like her well enough, I  _ could _ love her, but that isn't the point of it.” He closes his eyes and leans against Fëanáro. “You taught me nearly everything I know, do you know that?” 

“I taught you a single language and a single craft,” Fëanáro tells him, but he lays an arm around Arafinwë's waist and pulls him closer. 

The water in Alqualondë is warm around their ankles. Arafinwë's body is warm against Fëanáro’s side. “You taught me not to make myself smaller to fit where I was. You taught me to look for somewhere that would fit me anyway.” And then, more softly, “You taught me my own heart.” 

Fëanáro, for once, is silent. That  _ cannot _ mean what it appears to mean. 

“I'm sorry,” Arafinwë says after a long moment. “I should not have told you that. But I did mean it.” 

“You love me.” Fëanáro's throat is very dry. 

Arafinwë laughs, not unkindly. His eyes are open now; Fëanáro cannot look away from them. “I have seen you in the forge, Fëanáro. I could not  _ not _ love you.” 

_ And I have seen you speak a second language more comfortably than I have ever heard you speak your first, walking through the city you have claimed as your home, gleaming with gems of your own making,  _ Fëanáro thinks. “And even a stone would love you,” he says. 

Arafinwë looks up at him and smiles like the sunlight reflecting off the water. 

It is entirely possible that Fëanáro kisses him. 


End file.
